The Realist Blueprint Anna Kornbluh The Henry James Review, Volume 36, Number 3, Fall 2015, pp. 199-211 (Article) Published by Johns Hopkins University Press For additional information about this article http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/hjr/summary/v036/36.3.kornbluh.html Access provided by Illinois @ Chicago, Univ Of (12 Nov 2015 19:39 GMT) The Realist Blueprint By Anna Kornbluh, University of Illinois, Chicago Standing at opposite ends of its history, Henry James and Fredric Jameson are two of realism’s most exacting critics. As they remarkably also share an abiding fascination with architecture, explorations of their confluence ought well consider what trusses realism to architecture. It is the wager of this speculative essay that architecture can serve as the foundation for a robust non-mimetic theory of literary realism. Despite deconstruction, the Auerbachian definition of realism as the serious representation of the actually existing world remains paradigmatic.1 This conceit that realism essentially represents bolsters today’s hegemonic consensus that literature is information and that the task of the critic is to tabulate information, correlating work to cause, word to referent, with ever more granularity.2 The architectural imaginaries of James and Jameson, I want to suggest, furnish resources for turning away from mimesis and therefore buttressing literary criticism against its reduction to science. What might be opened up by thinking architecturally about realism, thinking realism as architecture? Architecture would mean here not the physical sense of “building” but a figurative projection of “social space.” 3 Such projections, in their formal specificity and their political consequence, weld James to Jameson. Through this bond we might dispense with mimetic fidelity to the single world and assert instead that realism drafts and constructs worlds. Realism fundamentally designs and erects socialities, imagines the grounds of collectivities, probes the mystique and encumbrance of materialities, calibrates and modulates institutions and productions beyond the scope of the given. To behold realism in its architectural dimension is to elevate construction before reference, to esteem the fundaments of world-building independent of mimesis, to appraise production that is irreducible to representation. Elevations of the Novel (Jamesian Architecture) Why does Henry James make such marked use of architecture within his novels and in his theory of the novel?4 Jamesian moments of climax are very often intensely architecturally coded. The Portrait of a Lady, to take only the most succinct example, The Henry James Review 36 (2015): 199–211. © 2015, Johns Hopkins University Press 200 The Henry James Review renders Isabel Archer’s grim recognition of her plot thusly: “the truth of things, their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness” (606). More roomily, when Milly Theale com- mences a counterplot to the one in which she finds herself ensnared, The Wings of the Dove depicts this turn as resolute domiciling in a Venetian palace: She looked over the place, the storey above the apartments in which she had received him, the sala corresponding to the sala below and fronting the great canal with its gothic arches. The casements between the arches were open, the ledge of the balcony broad, the sweep of the canal, so overhung, admirable, and the flutter toward them of the loose white curtain an invi- tation to she scarce could have said what. But there was no mystery after a moment; she had never felt so invited to anything as to make that, and that only, just where she was, her adventure. It would be—to this it kept coming back—the adventure of not stirring. “I go about just here.” (345) Most voluminously, The Golden Bowl magisterially confabulates Maggie’s dilated anagnorisis, spatializing the time of realization into an exotic locale: This situation had been occupying, for months and months, the very centre of the garden of her life, but it had reared itself there like some strange, tall tower of ivory, or perhaps rather some wonderful, beautiful, but out- landish pagoda, a structure plated with hard, bright porcelain, coloured and figured and adorned, at the overhanging eaves, with silver bells that tinkled, ever so charmingly, when stirred by chance airs. (327–28) James’s novels deploy architecture as an exotic figure for a fugitive uneclipsed sphere of social relations: to comprehend sociality in all its treachery and banality is to ex- perience architecture (see Fig. 1). Reciprocally, James’s prefaces prevalently deploy architecture as a commanding figure for the totality of relations that the novel art produces. For James, “a great building is the greatest conceivable work of art,” and thus the writer as artist “has verily to build, is committed to architecture, to construction at any cost; to driving in deep his vertical supports and laying across and firmly fixing his horizontal, his resting pieces—at the risk of no matter what vibration from the tap of his master-hammer” (FW 1130). The resulting “house of fiction” may be the most revered image in all of James, but the house’s floorplan has been too readily domesticated by countless cul- turalist studies of interior design. Drafting that house, James arrays curious tensions, frequently invoking “bricks,” “buildings,” “cornerstones,” and “foundations,” while accentuating the incommensurability between ordinary employments of matter and mortar and his own extraordinary assemblages: The house of fiction has in short not one window, but a million—a num- ber of possible windows not to be reckoned, rather; every one of which has been pierced, or is still pierceable, in its vast front, by the need of the individual vision and by the pressure of the individual will. These aper- tures, of dissimilar shape and size, hang so, all together, over the human The Realist Blueprint 201 Figure 1. A. L. Coburn’s “Mr Longdon’s”; frontis- piece to The Awkward Age, Vol. 9 of The Novels and Tales of Henry James. Reproduced by permission of the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin. scene that we might have expected of them a greater sameness of report than we find. They are but windows at the best, mere holes in a dead wall, disconnected, perched aloft; they are not hinged doors opening straight upon life. (1075) Not even the Pritzker-Prize-winning conceptual architect Zaha Hadid could build such a house, with its unreckonable number of pierceable, disparate windows. These infinite apertures “are not hinged doors opening straight,” permitting passage from exterior to interior or from fiction to fact. They are not even portals of illumination but chimeric reverberations, penetrable fenestrations, holes within holes, queer open- ings casting an ontological paradox: since “dead wall” is the architectural term for a wall without windows, the fabrication here cleaves windows in a place without windows, lacunae unto their own non-existence. The planar distortions and dimen- 202 The Henry James Review sional disjunctions of the house of fiction thus, above all, spatialize the inconsistencies of what exists and excessively mediate openings to what inexists. James repeatedly associates architecture with such excesses (the innumerable, the infinite), outlining a paradoxical science of building impossible buildings. For all the inventive intensity of Jamesian architecture, his edifices nonetheless hew to firm standards of integrity, to what he calls “the principle of cohesion” (FW 1170). Employing architectural metaphors to convey the “proper fusions”5 that scaf- fold his visions, James labors under the imperative of precise engineering: for erecting on such a plot of ground the neat and careful and proportioned pile of bricks that arches over it and was thus to form, constructionally speaking, a literary monument . a structure reared with an “architec- tural” competence. I should clearly have to pile brick upon brick . I would leave no pretext for saying that anything is out of line, scale or perspective. I would build large—in fine embossed vaults and painted arches, as who should say, and yet never let it appear that the chequered pavement, the ground under the reader’s feet, fails to stretch at every point to the base of the walls. (1080) When novelists fail, in James’s estimation, as in the cases of Eliot’s discursivity without dramatic intensity, Dickens’s action without character density, or Trollope’s distension without limit, the failure rests in this register of architectural integrity—of proportion- ing and intercalation. His renderings for the house of fiction famously tighten such “large loose baggy monsters” into crystalline design; his theory of the novel repeatedly advocates for “fusion”—the interrelation of parts (character, incident, description) but also the ultimate inseparability of “substance and form” (FW 1135). The precisely fused work is one in which it is “impossible to say . where one of these elements ends and the other begins” and one is “unable . to mark any such joint or seam”; “the continuity of things is the whole matter.” Structural integrity of impossible structures. James houses this supple theory in that ambivalent edification of his corpus, the New York Edition, where he extrava- gantly engages architecture: every photographic frontispiece James commissioned (twenty-three photos in all) addresses colonnades, arches, bridges, gates, courtyards, grand halls, cathedrals, palaces, plazas,